


Tin

by GStK



Category: Hyouka & Kotenbu Series
Genre: F/M, Multi, Other, Poly QPs, Polyamory, Queerplatonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 00:24:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GStK/pseuds/GStK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He paints himself into the corner of a sleepy little existence, and that is how he is happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tin

**Author's Note:**

> Abstract. Alternating point of view.

One day, he is young, and it is finally his turn for show-and-tell. He gathers what's he's brought and lifts to his feet, making the journey forward. The air around him is charged: the students on his left whisper nervously, and on the right, just the same. Their parents are cloistered together at the back of the class; their words are quiet. The light from the windows makes it hard to see them clearly.

He takes his place where millions of students have stood before, right next to the teacher's desk. He faces the classroom, and the noise stops, drifting away on a hush and a sigh. They're all looking at him.

He looks at the teacher. He can't make out her face. But her voice, gentle, encourages him.

_Oreki Houtarou-kun. Why don't you show the class what you brought today?_

He does. He holds it up―a pencil case, modest and handy. Its hinges are well-worn, silver paint flaking around the edges.

 _Tell us about it_ , the teacher says. Her voice starts to waver.

"It's me."

 _I see. It's very..._ average.

Agreement ripples through the classroom, slow and steady.

_Is that all you wanted to show us?_

He nods.

 _Well, thank you for that_ _―_

He's already stepped away. She's already forgotten his name.

So has everyone else.

* * *

Another day, a day before then, he's led by his parents into a wide, white room. There's people everywhere, and each has their own nook or cranny they call their own. It's bright and overwhelming. His mother works his hand out of hers, gives him a little push forward.

 _Go ahead_ , she says. _Go find a place to play_.

He doesn't. He just drifts until he finds it, a spot to call his own. He ends up in a corner not too far from everyone else, where he can see and be seen.

When he tries to reach out, his fingers skim the air and fall short.

* * *

He wanders. Somewhere, he finds an old library. The shelves stretch up and up, far higher than he could ever hope to reach. He contents himself with a book from one of the lower shelves, settling down to read.

Shadows flicker and dance across the library's windows, but no one ever comes inside.

* * *

At one point, a boy bounces into his corner, eyes alive and smile keen. _Let's be friends_ , he says.

He doesn't have anything better to do, so what he says is, "Yes."

The boy pushes him out of his corner constantly, dragging him along to play strange new games, meet strange new people. Without a wall to his back, Houtarou is unsteady, tired. The boy shouts when he loses, thrills when he wins. They stick together.

When the boy lets go, he drifts back to his corner, an inevitability. Satoshi drifts too, but without an anchor. Amidst people and activities, he's perpetually at sea.

 _That's how I want it to be_.

* * *

In a small, bright room, there is a boy. He greets you with a smile and a wave of his hand, inviting you to sit. Spread out in the space between you is a chaotic mess of cards, all face down, all in blue checkerboard.

He asks you to play, and you say yes.

He is far better at Memory than you are. Half of the cards are subjects, events, and the other half are odd tidbits that somehow fit with them. He matches the cards with ease, and he explains it all away with his hasty smiles. You never had a chance.

When the game is over, he scatters the cards again. Even though he's won, it's not a win. He's a machine, you see: machines can never succeed.

He laughs at the expression on your face.

* * *

The boy whirls him against a girl. He bumps into her, and she scowls. _Leave me alone_ , she says.

He doesn't want to deal with her, so what he says is, "Okay."

The girl is always close at hand, mostly thanks to the boy. She smiles at him and laughs at his jokes. She and Houtarou talk rarely, and when they do, her words are a slap in the face. She looks younger than she is, and for that, boys love her.

He doesn't, and the boy doesn't, and maybe that's why she stays behind. Mayaka goes where Satoshi goes, and her hand around his wrist is a shackle.

 _Nobody asked you, you know_.

* * *

In a dark, elegant courtyard, there is a girl. She frowns when you get near, retreating back into her thorned bushes to get away. She only ever approaches the boy, who presses against her barbs like they're nothing. She reaches her hand out to him... and he takes it, leaning forward. So does she.

With his grin comes a promise: he can't do this. With his rejection comes a song: he never stops humming, voice sweet.

The girl's hand falls. So does she, eventually. She'll get back up, because that's what she does. But for a single moment in time, the thorns bite at her, rooting her in place.

You look away and pretend she's not crying.

* * *

His sister sends him spinning, and somewhere, he careens into her ― the other girl. She is sturdy and she does not fall. _It's nice to meet you_ , she says.

He doesn't want to be rude, so what he says is, "You too."

She's the pinnacle of manners and elegance, but there's something wrong: her eyes are too big. There's a spark of curiosity in them that should've been lost when she was young. When she looks at Houtarou, he feels like he's back in the classroom, his pencil case back on trial.

With Chitanda, there is a rope pulling them together. Mayaka takes to her instantly, and Satoshi doesn't mind much, either.

_We may be the Classics Club, but being friends is important too, Oreki-san._

* * *

In a room of tea and tatami mats, there she stands: the other girl. She bows her head in thanks. She's the picture of elegance and grace, but her hands are never still. She shuffles papers from the Wall Newspaper Club; she unfurls the wrapper on an expensive-looking chocolate; she folds her hands in silent prayer.

And suddenly, she is upon you. Your hands are in hers, and your eyes meet. She stares at you with the intensity of someone who needs to know, someone who's had questions burning inside her for seven long years.

She has you captive before you can even think of moving Her pleas arrest you in their sincerity.

You can not escape.

* * *

He rarely leaves his corner on his own, but there are days. There are days when the other girl plucks him out of it, with the same ease one might pluck an apple from a tree. He is as unsteady as ever, but she builds him bridges with puzzles to solve, with riddles to unwind.

He does what he can―points out the obvious―and she is, for whatever reason, grateful.

* * *

A rainy evening finds his family at the only Chinese restaurant in town. When dinner's over, they give him a fortune cookie. Just for fun.

 _You will have great luck in the future_ , it tells him.

* * *

The rope Chitanda has wrapped around their wrists is white. _It's friendship_ , she says, and he believes her. Mayaka and Satoshi soon tie a red rope around each other's, frayed but usable. _It's love_ , they say, and he believes them.

There is a day, a day when he is not so young, and they offer him another rope. It's red and white at the same time. He doesn't know what to think of it, so what he asks is, "Is this love?"

 _No!_ , Satoshi says, laughing at him.

"Is it friendship?" he chances.

 _It's both_ , Mayaka says curtly, and she ties the rope around his wrist tight.

He looks at it, at them, and he believes.

* * *

When your birthday comes, you push your pencil case aside and wait for the day to be over. You don't expect anything.

But you're met with a surprise.

The other girl, she brings you paper, an entire notebook for you to write in. She smiles at your embarrassment, waves away your protests.

The boy, he brings you new pencils. When you point out the strange strange designs, all he does is grin.

The girl, the one with the barbs, comes in late and presses a pencil sharpener into your hands. It's a jab at the boy, but she's thinking of you, too.

They sit with you while you write stories, and their eyes are just for you.


End file.
